Burnt
by orfan
Summary: The Group makes itself into an image to which the 'candidate' would respond best


Burnt

Rating: M

Spoilers: The Time is Now

Summary: The Group makes itself into an image to which the 'candidate' would respond best

Disclaimer: Not mine, not what I think true. Don't sue

Author's note: I'm a bit perverse, can't give up on her or the possibility that the Group may be (a bit of) a sham. I don't necessarily believe in Angry!Lara, but I kind of like her

The fear is like a fallen bridge,

A broken promise

And the proof is in

The bloodshot eyes of the one

Who failed to see

Live, Mystery

She sat, smoke from the fifth cigarette dangling about her. Four butts in the ashtray, the lighter and the pack next to it, three prescription bottles, a driver's license, and the clothes she was wearing – her only worldly possession s in a two-foot square in a motel off the highway. Sure, she had some money coming to her from them, and most of her assets and belongings had been frozen upon her admittance. She'd sold or packed a lot of it anyway, and her next-of-kin had probably thought insurance was paying for the hospital. If only he'd known.

_Hospital_. She would have laughed if her throat weren't so dry. She stood to retrieve a glass of water on legs weak and scarred. She'd considered something stronger – maybe a medium-sized, medium-priced, full-strength whisky – but had decided against it on the grounds that she perversely didn't want to forget anymore.

She stubbed her cigarette out and lit another one. Hell, she had two years of clean living to make up for.

Two years of her life passed in an institution because she'd been dumb enough and desperate enough to believe. She'd bought their history, philosophy, prophecy, and propaganda as if it had sustained her. Sickly, it had. She'd worked for them, altered her life for them, spreading their tentacles under the guise of solving cases they'd deemed 'worthy' of her help. She'd trembled at their power, awed at their knowledge; how could they know where evil was before sending her, how could they attempt the smuggling of eh board of Christ out of Israel and later, how could they with impunity assassinate the supposed mastermind half a world away? How had they compiled the information? When she'd been temporarily dismissed from the Group, a small part of her had felt she deserved her punishment. How, God how had they identified her in the first place? But she never questioned, never asked those questions anyway. She'd blindly believed, treasuring each new bit of secret, powerful information as another rung in the very long ladder to understanding.

What a damn fool she'd been. Angered again, she picked up the cellophane cigarette box wrapper. She held it up to the glowing end and inhaled deeply. The plastic caught fire on the second try and melted rapidly, shrinking and twisting. It fell off in blobs to the ashtray below.

Two years and so much sacrificed. Of course, others had lost even more, loved ones or their lives or their minds completely. Hers was temporary but she couldn't tell yet if it was better or worse. And all because she'd needed to believe, because she'd clung so dearly to flimsy, contradictory constructions. The Group – it had fucking controlled her, which was exactly what they wanted. They'd blinded her and used her to further their aims which had nothing to do with the pseudo-religious world saving they'd described. There was, for them, no battle between good and evil like there was for her, but if its imagery made her act they'd employ it. It had been a rush and a reassurance to know she'd not been alone along. But then, she supposed, the Group makes itself into an image to which the 'candidate' would respond best.

Fuck it. She wanted to hit something, break something, burn the whole world down so they'd never have the chance to achieve their goals, to do this to another person.

After all, it wasn't personal with them, and yet it was beyond personal. They probably knew everything about her and didn't care. They enjoyed when she'd cooperated; after all, they'd invested in recruiting and securing her, but if she'd walked into the Oval Office tomorrow to report on an international criminal terrorist group and detail their crimes they wouldn't be marred.

She almost shuddered to think what would happen to her.

She stabbed out the remains of the cigarette – the last one of the night, she decided impulsively. The red numbers on the clock shone in the dim room – 1:17. She stood and stretched. Tonight was going nowhere fast. A pity party and a puff of smoke. She made her way to the bathroom, compiling on the way a to-do list. 1) Get out of here. 2) Get at least one other set of clothes.

The plastic bag on the counter contained the rest of her worldly goods, so new and unfamiliar she'd forgotten about them. She brushed her teeth and for the hell of it applied some deodorant. Number 3 – buy a hairbrush. Finally, two ointments, gauze, and tape. Again, perversely, she'd decided to be the subject of her own experiment. Burn cream on one set of restraint burns, blisters, and pressure sores – left, she decided – and medicated anti-scar cream on the right. Ankles first – the wrist bandages would make much other motion besides getting into bed too awkward to be worth it. The rest of the marks, mostly injections and IV sites and bruises, she decided to let heal naturally, like a control of sorts. She had two-year-old slashes on the inside of each wrist to compare everything else too.

Before, and after.


End file.
